


Set the clocks back

by turnyourankle



Category: The Used
Genre: Early Days, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early band fic wherein Bert is living with Quinn as he finishes off his last year of high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set the clocks back

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/)**lovebashed** for the beta. As always, this is fake and completely disclaimed.

  
Quinn almost drops off his chair when Bert appears in the window, waving. He has to grab the edge of his desk and steady his chair before sitting down normally. He curses below his breath, and tries to send Bert a scolding glare.

If Bert gets it he ignores it, pushing himself up against the window when the teacher has her back turned. He squashes his nose against the glass, and window gets foggy in the wake of his open mouth. He draws a _B_ and a _4_ in the fog, and waits for Quinn to nod before disappearing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

”And here I thought you were banned from school property.”

Bert's only acknowledgment is a brief burst of laughter. He continues to strut across the top of the bleachers, palms bouncing off his thighs and feet stomping. He's screaming along to the beat the marching band has as they parade across the green.

”I'mma rebel yelling,” Bert does yell, thrusting his hips into the empty air.

”Billy Idol, really?”

”I know you think he's yours, Quinny, but we can share. He'd probably prefer that.”

”Aren't you supposed to be at work?” Quinn shouts, mounting the steps two-by-two.

”This _is_ work,” Bert shouts, ”gotta practice my vocal range and shit.”

”What about the stuff that pays.”

”It pays in beer.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. ”How about that thing that pays for strings and mics?”

”Shift at the way of the sub starts in half an hour. Couldn't drag that crap with me,” Bert says, nodding at the stack of red flyers next to him. ”Might think they're overpaying me or something. And I'm not supposed to have another extra job, what the fuck ever, like school wouldn't have been just another job. Got about a hundred copies before Mister big boss man walked in on me, should do for now.”

”Red?”

”Yeah, dude, all the best things in life are red. Danger, blood, stop signs, insides, red dye and red M&Ms. Apples.”

”Not all apples are red.”

”Whatever, Quinntard. Don't be like that.” Bert pulls Quinn's arm and shows off a grin the shape of an orange slice.

”You know I almost broke my neck cause of you.”

”Should teach you not to weigh on your chair like that. Keep the balancing acts for the stage, learn from the master.”

”Don't you mean living rooms and basements?”

”These babies will change that.” Bert uncovers a staple gun, fastened in the waistband of his jeans. They sag as he hands it over to Quinn, baring his hips and a good inch of his underwear. ”I need that back when you're done. I'm pretty sure the boss has them all tracked or something.”

Quinn nods, piling the papers and the staple gun into his arms.

”Oh, also, mom told me to remind you not to be late for dinner,” Quinn says, voice flat. He groans to himself before adding, ”She's making that tart thing you like.”

”Will do, dad.” Quinn can practically hear the smirk on Bert's face.

 

 

 

”I've labeled all the boxes with what's in them; there's some meat loaf and casserole. There's plenty to last you until Sunday.” Quinn's mom closes the fridge, looking back at Quinn for an affirmation.

He nods, and she raises an eyebrow. ”Quinn?”

”Right, gotcha. Labeled foods for us all.”

She scribbles on a post-it; numbers and address to the hotel, probably. As if cell phones weren't enough. ”And please do actually eat the food, Quinn, and make sure everyone else does too. I don't want to come home to a sugared out household, allright?”

”Don't worry about them, Mrs. A, I'll make sure that food comes to use.” Bert says, scraping his fork across his plate, picking up the last few crumbs of his tart.

”Thank you, Robert.” She smoothes, her shirt and takes a deep breath. ”And, Quinn—don't forget to mail your—,” she glances at Bert, he's biting his nails, and at her look he quickly moves his feet from the side of Quinn's chair, ”— _papers_ , allright? Deadlines are coming up. There are stamps on your father's desk in the den.”

”Right.” Quinn picks up the dishes left on the table and loads the dishwasher. He can feel his mom's eyes burrowing into his back. Her hand strokes his shoulder affectionately, and he flashes her a small smile.

 

 

 

”You know, defacing school property is a crime,” a girl says behind Quinn as he finishes plastering a wall with red flyers.

His jaw tightens; depending on who she is he has to watch his mouth. He glances at her, and does a double take when he notices that she's smiling, lip ring glinting and black bangs almost covering her eyes. She adds, ”Keep up the good work.”  
  
She grabs one from his stack, trailing a long nail across the surface. Quinn glances something that looks like a Jack Nicholson tattoo under her sleeve as she pins the flyer up, continuing the red trail on the wall.

She nods at it, asks, ”This your band or you just a groupie?”

”S'mine.”

”What's your poison?”

”Guitar.”

”Nice, so,” she glances at the paper again, ”Quinn, huh? I'm Katie. D'you really think this is the kind of crowd you want listening to your band?”

”Any publicity is good publicity.”

”I guess.” She clicks her tongue. ”You know—think you're free this weekend? Well, you meaning you and your dudes and your instruments, of course.”

”Why?”

”There's this party this weekend that could use some music.”

”You don't even know if we're good.”

She shrugs, backpack making a soft sound as it bounces against her back. ”Are you good?”

”Yeah.”

”So now I know.” She smiles. She pulls out a bic from her pocket, and hands it to Quinn, as well as stretching out her hand for him to write on.

Quinn says, ”I can just use a flyer, you know. Won't wash off.”

”S'just a waste of free advertising. And easier to lose.” She places her other hand on her chest. ”I promise not to wash it until I've called. Non-scout's honor.”

 

 

 

Quinn doesn't notice pebbles are being thrown at his window until five hits in. Despite the dusky light, he doesn't have to squint to notice Bert standing on the lawn, waving his arms animatedly.

He starts climbing up the house facade as soon as Quinn opens the window. His feet bang against the rain gutter, and he heaves himself up into the room. ”I'm getting better at this. Practice really does make perfect!”

Quinn drags Bert's shoulders as he laughs, ungracefully rolling into the room and flipping over, landing on his back. His shoes and hands are muddy, and he wipes himself off on his hoodie.

”The fuck, Bert, I told you not to do that.” A crisp wind washes into the room as Quinn shuts the window. Even the fresh air doesn't quell the smell of beer. Quinn glances at the yard looking for  
any forgotten beer bottles. The scene is clear.

”Chucks, Goldilocks, not my fault your hair's not long enough to let me in.”

”I think you're confusing fairytales,” Quinn says, hurrying to turn up the volume on his tv. ”You didn't lose your keys again, did you?”

”Listen, Quinnface, I'm trying to prove a point you see. Chivalry is not dead.”

”I don't know if I'd call rolling into your own bedroom chivalrous.” He pauses, watches Bert writhe on the floor and sighs. ”Do you even know what that word means?”

Bert laughs, hands bracing Quinn's face and shaking it.

”Do you?” Bert laughs even louder at that, bracing himself on the floor. ”You probably do, busy-school-bee, you are, you. Pop-up quiz: how many syllables and how is it spelled?”

Quinn untucks a spare towel kept under his bed for emergencies, and wraps it around Bert's neck. He rubs off some of his hair on it, trying to avoid Bert's stuck out tongue stabbing at his face. ”You're gonna poke out one of my eyes if you keep that up. Or catch a booger.”

”How do you know that's not the point,” Bert says, and chortles as he lunges for Quinn's face. Caught off guard, they tip over on the floor, and Bert does his best to rub off all the mud and beer onto Quinn.

There's a big Bert-shaped dirt print on the floor when he gets up. He stumbles, but manages to twist himself out of his dirtied shirt and kick off his jeans before letting himself fall into the bed. Bert nods at the tv, attention plucked by the sounds. A woman on Jerry Springer starts yelling about her kid sleeping with her step-dad. ”I can't believe you jack off to this shit, you're so fucking easy. Sooo eaaaaasy, Quinny.”

”If that's your way of asking for porn, too bad. I'm busy, so _you_ 're gonna have to be that fucking easy. ”

”I can work with anything, just you watch.”

”I'd rather not,” Quinn says, watching as Bert scratches his ribs. He's splayed across the bed, and he burps, trying to make a melody.

”You started the party without me, huh.”

”Wouldn't want to tear you away from your pressing college applications.”

”How do you even—,” Quinn starts, and sighs. It'll be bad enough telling his parents, he hasn't even thought of how to tell the guys.

Bert rolls his eyes. ”Oh, please, I did get two years of high school.”

”I'm not applying anywhere. But I still have homework. So be quiet, I don't want any moaning to yourself about how great you are.”

”Huh. Yeah I can do that. I'm quiet and, oh, _so_ , good,” Bert says, making a jerking motion with his hand.

 

 

 

By the time Quinn's done with his homework, Bert's rolled himself and the covers into a ball, covers and limbs knotted together at the foot of the bed.

”Never learn do you.” Quinn sighs, attempting to tip Bert over so he too can fit into the bed. He barely manages to fit inside the edge, curving himself against Bert's balled up shape. When he pulls on the cover Bert unravels, limbs relaxing and fitting against Quinn's back.

”Half squid, half human, fuck,” Quinn huffs to himself, letting Bert's arm tug him closer and his sweaty chest practically gluing them together.

 

 

 

”Morning suuuunshine!” Bert exclaims, pulling the covers off Quinn's body and bed. Quinn rolls onto his back, reaching out instinctively. His hands and feet collide with Bert's shoulders and chest. ”Now now, early worm catches the bird, you know.” Bert laughs, and Quinn grunts. He moves his pillow, covering his face with it. He's not ready for Bert's sadistic smile this early in the morning.

”Howdy, morning wood,” Bert says, looking down at Quinn's shorts. Groaning, he rolls over to his side, facing the wall. Bert giggles, and the bed undulates as he jumps off.

”You better take care of that. It ain't gonna jerk itself.”

 

 

 

”There really needs to be something done about this no booze, no porn, no cigarettes situation going on in this house.” Bert's feet are propped up on the coffee table, and he's got both hands inside a cheerios box.

”You know the drill. You're too easily influenced, Bertie,” Quinn says from the kitchen, grabbing a carton of milk and a cookie jar.

The couch embraces Quinn like a soft pillow when he slumps down, letting him sink in. He drinks some of the milk straight from the carton and opens the jar.

”That chick Katie called about that gig-slash-party. We got an address and a time.”

Quinn uses the back of his wrist to dry his mouth, and frowns. ”She called you? I didn't give her your number.”

”Nah, she thought she called you.” Bert throws a fistful of cheerios at Quinn's head, and he ducks just in time to miss the brunt of it.

”Dude, did you fucking steal my phone again? In some states I'm pretty sure stealing someone's phone and calling all their exes is some sort of crime. Especially if you do it twice.”

Bert kicks at Quinn's thighs and says, ”Dude, I did not steal your phone. You left it here.”

”What, here meaning in your pocket?”

”S'your number one hiding place.”

”Must be on the bad side of town for us to be considered.”

”Everything is the bad side of town,” Bert says and smirks. ”'Sides, as good time as any to stock up on free beer.”

”And you don't have work scheduled, huh.” Quinn asks, chugging the rest of the milk and picking some of the stray cereal on the couch, dropping it into his mouth. He cringes, tilting his head to read the cereal box. ”Why are you eating this fiber enriched cardboard shit?”

”I have to watch my figure, blonds prefer skinny ass singers; you should know.” Bert leaves the cereal on the coffee table and stands up on the couch, flopping over the back.

”Enough carbs, I need some sugar in my system.” Bert stuffs his face with two snickerdoodles, and mumbles, ”Branden's gonna pick us up at five, and Jeph is meeting us there.”

”You called Branden? And Jeph?”

”Aside from my incredible ability to deep throat, my speed dialing skills are what I'm the most proud of, you should know that.”

 

 

 

There's a pack of cigarettes by the side of the road outside the Denver house. It's the first thing Bert notices when he gets out in the morning, backpack low-slung and hair in his face.

”By jove; it's a sign!” Bert exclaims, pushing the carton with his shoe before squatting and opening it up. ”Half full, fuck yeah.” Picking one out he stuffs one between his teeth, a grin splitting his face.

He runs up to the door, pounding the bell before rushing back to the van, piling stuff onto the sidewalk.

”Hey, you made it,” Katie says, appearing at the door.

”Would I lie to you?” Bert says around his cigarette, bumping shoulders with Quinn as he lifts his guitar out of Branden's van.

”I dunno, would you?”

”Probably.”

”Then you can't blame me for that assumption, really.” She props the door open with an empty pot, and flips her hair, casting a surveying glance on each of them. ”So. Who needs help carrying? I can take it, come on, load this puppy up.”

 

 

 

There's a square cleared in the living room, which barely fits the four of them without their instruments. ”Think it'll do?” Katie asks, arms crossed as Jepha crowds together the bass and guitar.

”I always liked tight spaces, s'allright,” Branden says, face concentrated as he carefully mounts his drums. ”I guess I'll just stay behind my babies all night.”

”That's such a bad come on, you can do better,” Bert says, pinching Branden's nose. He turns to Katie, says, ”We'll make it work, you'll see.”

”Great. Want anything to drink to warm you up?”

Jepha nods, and Bert says, ”Anything mixed with red bull would be ace. But what I really want to know is who's got the roofies in this place.” Quinn rolls his eyes.

”Why?”

”I've got this gorgeous leggy blond I've been dying to get my hands on,” Bert says, hands digging into Quinn's armpits from behind. Quinn squirms and laughs, trying to fight back without kicking any of their gear over.

”Shut up you freak.”

Bert licks the back of his neck up to his ear and continues tickling him.

 

 

 

The first punch connects with a throat when Bert is busy screaming into his mic. Quinn notices the mass of people standing around suddenly moving in one direction, leading the fighting pair in their direction.

Bert is still screamingwhen he steps out of the designated band square. His hair whips across his face as the crowd ushers him into the fight.

He loses the mic as someone's shoulder bumps it out of his hand, and a fist smashes into his cheek. Bert almost falls from the impact, but he twists, instead, managing to jump the guys who punched him.

Bert bites the guy's shoulder, and he shrieks, arms batting. Failing to push Bert off of him, he bends down and Bert flips back, digging his bitten nails into the dude's back. Quinn doesn't see more than that, because as soon as Bert drops to the floor, he's there, punching the guy who fought him off.

Someone pushes his back, and a kick to the shins makes him topple over, but he doesn't let go of the dude's shirt, dragging him down with him.

Someone hits his face, and he tastes copper as he sees Bert climbing on the guy's back. He manages to grin at him, madly, before large hands—Jeph's, he realizes later—wrap around Bert's arms and pull him off.

The floor moves under Quinn as someone drags him along the floor.

 

 

 

Quinn washes off his face, rubbing his wet hands against his eyes and nose. Even after chugging a combo of tequila and Jäger his head is still pounding, making his reflection vibrate. He runs his fingers against the red blooming across his jaw. It doesn't look good, and he's pretty sure he can't say the other guy looks worse.

”It's open,” Quinn says as a fervent knock on the door echoes, and Bert rushes in. His grin is far too wide for someone with a split lip. Dropping two opened beers on the counter, he pokes at Quinn's cheek, fingers gently bracing his jaw.

” _Dude_. When'd you get all superhero-ish? Fuck, here I thought all that shine was greasy skin and hair, dunno how I missed that armor.”

”Shut up,” Quinn says, rolling his eyes. He has to stop himself from laughing.

” _You_ shut up, you love it. Don't even try.”

”God, I need a fucking smoke, fighting is like sex, except you're still hard after,” Bert says, and grabs his crotch. ”I knew those cigarettes were a sign from above.”

He picks out the deformed carton and a lighter from his back pocket. He climbs up on the tub's edge, opening the small window before lighting his cigarette. He leans against the tiles, limbs loose and pants low. Quinn can see his boxers, and some of Bert's pubes are sticking out. It definitely looks like he just had sex.

Quinn coughs, asks, ”Did you find those drugs you wanted?”

”Just some E,” Bert says, jumping down from the edge of the tub. He puffs out a cloud of smoke. Fiddling in his pocket, he picks up a tab, holding it between his fingers. Quinn watches as Bert sticks out his tongue and places the tab on it.

Quinn picks up one of the beers, takes one, two swallows, and burps. ”You haven't taken it yet?”

”Who said it was for me?” Bert stretches his lips before leaning into Quinn and pushing his tongue into his mouth. Bert rubs his hips against him, and Quinn can feel his hard on. He grabs Bert's hair, wet and sticky, and opens his mouth wider.

”Mmm, copper,” Bert says, mouth still near Quinn's, breath warm against his face. He doesn't move away, hands bunching Quinn's shirt and pulling him closer.

”Admit it, you totally feel the rush too,” Bert reaches down and cups Quinn's crotch, squeezing. He grins, says, ”Should prolly take care of that, huh.”

”Yeah, uh—” Quinn says, and shifts, leaning back on the sink. He rubs himself against the crotch of Bert's jeans, biting his lip.

Bert flashes a smile before mashing his mouth against Quinn's again. Bert tastes of beer and cigarettes, their tongues slide against each other, and Quinn sucks on Bert's.

Bert is rough, nails dragging across his belly over his shirt, and when Quinn feels his hands trying to undo his jeans, he does it for him, and then reaches for Bert's.

Bert bites Quinn's lower lip and leans down, pushing his forehead against Quinn's chest as he sticks his hand inside Quinn's boxers, pulling out his dick.

Quinn does the same, but it's difficult for him to keep up; Bert's fingers are quick, and his grip is firm. Quinn's breath hitches sooner than Bert's. He comes over Bert's shirt, and Bert laughs, teeth bared as he thrusts into Quinn's hand, coming not too long after.

”I knew you were fucking easy,” Bert says without edge, and he licks Quinn's mouth.

”Come on, let's go make out on the couch and piss off some assholes,” Bert says, ”might get to throw a few more punches.” He downs the rest of the beer, and zips his pants.

 

 

 

Quinn doesn't get how he got home, until he realizes he's on a couch that's definitely not his with Bert fitted against him, drooling on his shoulder.

”Hey you're up,” Katie says when he stirs. She's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, cradling a mug. Jack Nicholson is on the tv, and Quinn rubs his eyes with his palm; it hurts, and pieces of the night before click into place in his head. He'll be staying away from mirrors for a long time.

He sits up, trying to move Bert so that he doesn't wake up.

Katie says, ”There's toast and jam in the kitchen. I think Jeph made tea, too.”

He finds the kitchen by following the smell of toasted bread, and realizes quickly that he's not in the house they were in yesterday. ”Jepha's here?”

Jepha is standing in the kitchen, buttering toast, and he smirks at Quinn's question.

”Couldn't get you guys over here on my own, needed a little manpower,” Katie says. ”You may both be skin and bones but you still weigh a fuckton.”

”I thought that was your house, yesterday.”

”Nah, I'm just the party planner.” She cringes. ”Or pooper, depending on who you ask. I don't think I'll be asked to pick a band again after yesterday. Although I did like what I heard.”

Quinn grunts, and takes the two slices of toast that pop out of the toaster, buttering them generously. Jepha hands him a mug of tea.

”We'll be sure to give you all the free tickets you want once we've got actual gigs,” Jepha says, sitting next to Katie on the floor.

”Neat-o. I hope they come with backstage passes,” she says, and smiles before sipping her tea.

Bert's sitting up on the couch, he steals the toast from Quinn, chomping down. His voice is hoarse when he says, ”Dude, thanks.”

Quinn steals the toast back, taking a bite and licking the crust.

”Dude, you think a little saliva will scare him off? How very naïve,” Jepha says, and laughs before turning his attention back to the movie.

”Yeah, Quinn, very mature,” Bert says, and takes another bite from the toast as Quinn holds it.

Quinn drops down on the couch, stuffing one of his slices in Bert's mouth. He chews happily and Quinn sips his tea. It's too hot and bitter, and almost scalds his tongue.

”I think you need to re-bleach your hair, dude,” Bert points out, stealing the second slice of toast. Quinn lets him. Bert folds the toast into fourths, crumbs spilling everywhere. He stuffs the small square into his mouth, and a large crumb falls into Quinn's messy hair. Bert starts picking at it, and finding the crumb, stuffs it back into his mouth. ”You've got some nasty roots.”

”I don't think the five second rule counts on hair,” Katie says and wrinkles her nose.

”Hey man, if it's good enough for the apes, who's to judge?”

”You're gonna go prematurely bald if you keep that bleaching shit up.” Katie cringes, fingers threading through her own hair.

”Don't listen to her, follow your roots!” Bert says, leaning into the crook of Quinn's neck, and biting down into the hollow. Jeph snorts.

” _Oh_ , man, Jeph, this is my favorite part look at that,” Katie exclaims, inching closer to the tv. Jepha's hand moves to her knee as they both mouth along the lines.

 

 

 

It's closer to four in the afternoon when they leave, Jeph driving them in his beat up car.

They sit in the back, squeezed in with Quinn's guitar. Bert sings along to the radio as Jeph taps the steering wheel to the beats.

Bert's is limp against Quinn's side, hands inside the waist of Quinn's jeans, teasing.

 

 

 

”Don't you think, maybe, we should instate some sort of policy regarding violence at shows?” Branden asks.

”Dunno, think an actual set list might be more important,” Bert says.

Branden frowns and asks, ”How is that more important?”

”If we were interesting enough, people wouldn't be fighting.” Jepha says, stirring his tea.

Branden takes a bite of his sandwich in protest, and makes a face as he chews, ”Fucking hell, Bert, I said no onions.” Quinn can't decide whether Branden's eyebrows are knotted in anger or concentration as he plucks out onion slices from his sandwich.

”Can't do fancy advanced shit when they're free,” Bert explains, voice high and perky. He has his customer service smile on, the scary one.

”I don't really think 'no onions' classifies as fancy,” Branden mumbles.

”Dude, imagine an all meat sub though,” Quinn says, stealing one of Branden's discarded onions. ”Chicken slices and ham and meatballs and steak and turkey. Maybe a little cheese.”

Jepha frowns, shaking his head. ”Or maybe something with hummus and falafel. Maybe some eggplant and yogurt.”

”Dude, you can get that at Pita Pocket. Nothing special 'bout it.” Bert says. ”Unless you wanted to stuff it with pot-falafel.”

”You can do that?” Quinn asks.

”I don't see why pot should be flavor limited to baked goods.” Bert shrugs, tearing off a bite of his sub, chewing with his mouth open.  
  
”Can we please be serious, it's not like we have all the time in the world.” Branden scrapes his nails against the worn out table top, eyes sharp. ”Shitty jobs still require punctuality.”

Bert grunts, and turns to Quinn. ”Don't you have that paper due tomorrow?”

Quinn sighs, poking his straw in his cup. ”More like last week. I guess I've got another allnighter on my hands.”

”Right,” Branden adds, ”and we don't all have back up plans.” His face looks tense, and he stares at Quinn's hands as he folds his cup. Quinn clears his throat, taking a deep breath. He counts to ten in his head, and stuffs his straw into his mouth, chewing it into strings.

”What the fuck does that mean,” Bert says, staring at Branden. Quinn tries to lock eyes with Bert, but his glare doesn't waver. Quinn can hear his jaw tick, and he feels nauseous.

There's a pause as they stare each other down, and finally Branden says, ”Nothing.”

”Hey, guys, against violence, right?”

”We didn't actually decide anything,” Branden comments, pointedly.

”Well, I think being against sounds good.” Jepha piles their cups and wrappers onto a tray. He turns to Bert and Quinn. ”How about the offenders, how do you feel about against?”

Quinn shrugs, and Bert says, ”Unless it's bad dudes who start it.”

”Which is what happened this time and it didn't exactly end well.”

Bert drags himself up from his seat, taking the full tray from Jepha. ”Fine, alert the press, write up a release. Now if you'll excuse me, my break is over.”

 

 

 

”I can't believe I forgot there was a game tonight.” The bleachers rattle above them as a cheer ripples through the audience, feet stomping down on the metal and only spots of rectangular light are visible from below.

”Or maybe you're just trying to off me,” Bert says, kicking at Quinn's shins. They're still sore, and Quinn grimaces at the hit.

Bert squints as he takes a drag from his joint, attempting to hold it in as he says, ”No wonder they say this is dangerous.”

Quinn takes a swig of his beer, looking up. It looks like all of the bleachers are swaying above them, however slightly. The movement dies down, and there are spots of light shining down.

”What an awesome way to go,” Bert says. All that fucking weight crushing down, wouldn't be anything left of ya.” Bert hisses, taking another drag and holding it in.

”Sounds to me like it'd suck.”

”Yeah, but you'd really feel it. Imagine all those fucking metal rods and seats and shit just fucking piercing through you.”

”Yeah.” Quinn pauses. ”That's the sucky part.”

”That's the point, you know, if you're only gonna die once, you better do it right.” Bert takes another drag from his cigarette, and Quinn watches his profile. ”Absorb everything and fucking enjoy it.”

”Like joining in on fist fights?”

”Exactly like that.” Bert grins, punching Quinn in the shoulder.  
“No safety nets,” Quinn says so low it's almost a whisper. There's a pause, and he catches his breath before turning on his side, facing Bert, and lets out a raspy, ”Hey.”

Bert responds by facing him. He wears a lazy smile, and it looks so sincere. Quinn wants to just keep that in his pocket for whenever Bert might need it, later. Or even just to look at it on his own.

Quinn scoots closer ungracefully, the sound of his clothes dragging on the cement barely audible under the audience's ruckus, but still there. Stretching his neck, he leans into Bert's smile, lips barely grazing briefly.

Bert responds quickly, sucking Quinn's lower lip into his mouth, and pushing his tongue into Quinn's mouth. He moves too, flipping himself onto Quinn's frame.

”Hey, hey, wait,” Quinn manages to breathe as Bert's tongue moves down his jaw. He's rubbing against him still, hands arlready under his shirt. Quinn has to bite his lip before speaking. ”Let's just you know, do it right.” Quinn's chest is tight while Bert taps on it, body going limp and heavy on top of him. He doesn't move.

Bert stays relaxed on top of Quinn, body languid and soft. He's heavy and warm, and he's still smiling.

Bert's lips are almost touching Quinn's when he says, ”Okay. But I have to warn you; I don't do dates without any putting out.”

”Neither do I.” Quinn grins and grabs Bert's ass, letting one of his legs fall between his. 


End file.
